


The Hand That Held Mine

by Calacious



Series: Comfort in November and December 2020 [21]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Comfortember 2020, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode s02e05, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Flufftober 2020, Homophobia Mentioned, Homophobic Act By Abuser, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Whumptober 2020, broken arm, hand holding, working through childhood trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27835474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: Daryl remembers. Rick helps him to forget.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes
Series: Comfort in November and December 2020 [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1996825
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40
Collections: Comfortember 2020, Flufftober 2020, Whumptober 2020





	The Hand That Held Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Whumptober prompt: Broken  
> the Flufftober prompt: Hand Holding  
> the comfortember prompt: Flashbacks
> 
> Events from season 2, episode 5, are mentioned (some dialogue used) in this. This is, however, AU.

His arm screams in pain, but Daryl knows better than to make any sound. Making a sound would make his daddy madder than he already was, and that would make his aching arm hurt even worse. 

Merle's face is red with suppressed anger, his hands are clenched in fists at his sides, but he bites his tongue and grabs onto Daryl's hand, the one that doesn't feel like it's on fire. This -- holding onto Merle's hand -- feels nice, but Daryl is careful to keep his face neutral. Careful not to let his daddy know that he feels comforted by the slightly sweaty, yet strong grip of his big brother's hand. If his daddy knew, he would just take that bit of comfort away from Daryl and beat him until he no longer remembered that momentary comfort.

It's that memory from decades ago that slams into Daryl when he sees Merle's bloodied hand on the roof of that building. It's the same hand that had held his when he'd been five, maybe six years old and his daddy had broken his arm because he'd spilled milk all over the kitchen floor when he'd tried to be a 'big kid' and make his own breakfast. 

It's the same hand that had held his after a beating, after their mother's death, after his daddy'd caught him kissing a boy on the lips because that's what he'd learned people did when they liked someone and he didn't know that made him into something his daddy hated. 

It's the same hand that Merle'd used to 'smack some sense' into him when Daryl'd done something dumb. Something that could'a gotten him hurt or killed. It was nothing like their daddy's hand. Nothing at all like the hard-edged, gnarled alcohol palsied hand that sent him to the hospital where nurses and doctors turned a blind eye to the Dixons and their broken bones and bruises.

It's the same hand that used to hold his during thunderstorms that shook the foundations of their house. The hand that Merle used to teach him how to hold a bow just right. The hand that taught him how to defend himself, and how to kill. The hand that held his when their mama died.

The same hand that held his during some of the worst moments in his life was now lying severed, empty on the roof of a building. It wasn't fair. 

"Life ain't fair, son," Merle's voice, lazy and smug came to him from memory, and he wants to throttle the smugness out of his brother's voice. 

Merle'd had more of a hand in raising him than their parents had, and now he was gone. The only one who'd ever cared about him. The only one who ever would, if Merle was to be believed, and so far Daryl had no reason to doubt his brother's words. 

"Fuck, you, Merle," Daryl whispers to the only part of his brother left for him to give hell to and he turns away from the empty, bloodied cuff that had trapped his brother on this godforsaken rooftop.

“He’s alive,” Daryl says, more to himself than to those who are with him. He refuses to believe anything else. His brother is too damn stubborn to bleed to death like some wuss.

Those words and the memory of his brother’s hand holding his through thick and thin keep Daryl’s feet moving forward, even when he wants to quit and stop walking for good. They keep him searching for the brother whose hands had shaped his life in all the ways that mattered. 

Nights, when it’s cold, and he’s lonely, and the only thing he wants is a hand to hold, he thinks about the first time Merle held his hand. He must’ve been three or four years old at the time, and had nothing but love and pride in his eyes for his big brother. It had been cold that night, and his daddy had hit him for the first time that Daryl could remember. He remembers crying, and Merle calling him a baby and telling him to suck it up and stop being a pansy.

He remembers biting his trembling lip and wiping furiously at the tears, wincing as his fingers brushed against a bruise. Merle hadn’t said another word, he’d just pulled Daryl to him and dragged him over to his bed and laid him down, and held his hand until he fell asleep. Daryl always felt safest when his big brother was holding his hand.

“What’cha thinkin’ so hard about?” Rick sits down beside him so close that their knees touch, jars the memory right out of him. The man’s warmth seeps into Daryl, making him shudder.

“Nothin’ man,” he says, looking away, fingers itching for a touch he knows that he can never have again. 

Rick nods, and sighs. “Mind if I sit and think about nothin’ with you?”

Daryl shrugs, glancing at Rick. The man’s eyes are locked on him with an intensity that makes Daryl’s stomach flip. 

Rick slips his hand into Daryl’s and twines their fingers together, making Daryl tense a little. Rick’s hand is warm and rough with callouses. It’s a lot like Merle’s -- rough from hard work and strong -- but there are distinct differences. Merle’s hand, while it made him feel safe and secure, had never given him butterflies, and never left him tongue-tied.

“This okay?” Rick asks, squeezing his hand.

Daryl can only nod, and squeeze Rick’s hand back. He allows a small, almost smile to creep across his face. It feels good, holding Rick’s hand and knowing that his daddy and big brother (much as he loves him) isn’t there to witness it. 

And when Rick leans closer, lips brushing lightly over his, making him blush, Daryl closes his eyes and puts all thoughts of Merle and his daddy aside in favor of relishing this moment. Rick’s body close enough to share body heat, thumb rubbing over Daryl’s knuckles in a way that stirs something inside of him that’s been trapped for far too long behind the cage of his chest, behind his daddy’s fists and cruel words, and the lingering memory of Rick’s lips on his sets him free.


End file.
